Red Meat

The biped took me to a bonfire on Race Point Beach last night. It was a beautiful night, clear and chilly. The sunset faded from orange to scarlet in a bright band against the dark horizon's edge of the ocean.

The fire was built up into a pyramid and gave off an intense heat that felt good in the cold air. A half moon rose over the dunes, turning the dark blue sky a silver color that I can only call John Dowd Blue. For those of you who don't know the artist, he is a regionalist painter in Provincetown who depicts the light and landscape of Cape Cod--and his work is truly breathtaking.


You can see more at his gallery here:

John Dowd's Artwork

That's the nice part. The bullshit part is that my biped didn't give me any food. And little did I know how thankful I would be for that. The group of bipeds had brought all sorts of stuff--hot dogs and hamburgers--things that I love (and the biped knows it). They also brought someone's old grill to cook it on. They got down to business lighting the charcoal and getting their little beach buffet set-up. And then one of them says "Hmmmm. Rusty." He had taken a bite of a burger. Another one, the big one, took a bite, too, and the look on his face was priceless. Here he is later:


Anyway, all this wonderful food was cooked on a grill that apparently had been sitting out in the rain for 30 or 40 years and had rusted all the way through. The rust flaked off in little metal particles that grafted onto the flesh of the meat, both the burgers and the hot dogs. There was no escaping it. My biped spit his food into the garbage. I nearly laughed my ass off. And that just goes to show, there's no need to cook meat. Eat it raw! I do! And avoid oral tetanus!

Here's Maria. She was there, too. I was pretty suspicious of her when we first met, but I've really grown to like her.



Here's my biped--he kept putting my sweatshirt on me and I kept taking it off.